


A Beautifully Frightening Revelation

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Ghosts, Halloween, Haunted Houses, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, Spooky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 14:44:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8289535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: John and Sherlock are investigating an isolated country manor haunted by a mischievous ghost. A series of spooky incidents brings them together in a candlelit bedroom, the night ripe for revelations and facing fears.





	1. Chapter 1

_There are no such things as ghosts._

John repeats the words to himself, clenches his fists, then forces his hands to relax. He squares his shoulders and continues to follow Sherlock down the dim hallway, a well-worn rug muffling their footsteps.

Sherlock tries each doorknob along the hall, some doors easily swinging open. He glances in, sniffs the air, assesses, then moves on. A few doors are locked, resisting the twist of Sherlock's wrist with a stubborn rattle. John scribbles a few notes about the locked rooms, lags behind, reluctant.

The country manor they're investigating dates back to the late 1700s. It's grand but drafty, rife with heavy doors, fireplaces, ornately carved mantles and dark woodwork. Modern amenities have been added over the decades, and it now serves as an inn for those who enjoy long rambles along the moors. Somewhere in its long history, along with proper plumbing and electricity, the house has also acquired a ghost.

Which don't exist, John reminds himself.

They are alone in the house, a condition that Sherlock had insisted on when taking the case. No guests, owners, or employees were to set foot anywhere near the property during the investigation. No one to compromise evidence or play tricks.

That's what this alleged ghost liked to do -- play mischievous tricks. Move things, break things, slam doors. The owners, a ruddy-faced couple in their late 50s, didn't seem like the type to make up stories. They came to Sherlock because the haunting was hurting their business.

“It's scaring away customers,” the wife had lamented, perched on the sofa in the Baker Street flat. “People say they want to see ghosts, but then when strange things happen…”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“The lights flicker,” the husband chimed in. “The whole room goes cold.”

Sherlock stifled a yawn.

The husband’s eyes went unfocused, remembering. “I saw her once. Black hair all done up, green gown, mouth painted red… beautiful.”

Sherlock examined his fingernails. “A woman in a green gown.”

The man nodded. “She smiled all pretty like. Then a book flew at my head.”

Sherlock looked up, intrigued. “A heavy book?”

The man nodded again. “Leather bound. I ducked, and it smashed a vase behind me.”

“And I saw her once, too, on the stairs,” the wife added, nervously twisting the straps of her handbag. “There was a scent of roses, thick and sweet, and there she was, walking up the staircase, her back to me. I dropped the breakfast tray I was holding.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, tented his fingers. “What is it you want me to do, exactly?”

“Find out if it's real, or just some sort of sick joke,” the wife said, near tears.

The husband rubbed his forehead, exhausted. “We’re tired. We just tired of not knowing what's real and what's not.”

Sherlock glanced at John, arched a skeptical eyebrow, then looked back at the clients. “We’ll take your case.”

 

 ************

 

“There must be mirrors, projectors, some sort of elaborate set up,” Sherlock had mused on the long drive to the manor, his fingers drumming the steering wheel.

“But what for? Why try to scare them off?” John glanced at the map on his phone, noting there was still another hour’s drive.

“Don't know… Most likely there's money involved somewhere, something valuable in the house, or the property itself.”

“Revenge?” John offered.

“Against those two?” Sherlock scoffed. “They're about as exciting as toast.”

“You never know. Could be a broken love affair. A disgruntled employee. Drugs.”

Sherlock glanced at John and smiled. “I've already checked into all that. They're resoundingly dull.”

John folded his arms and looked out the car window, annoyed that Sherlock always had to have the last word.

Sherlock now opens the last door in the hallway and peers into the room. Bed neatly made, a cool stillness in the air. Nothing unusual.

As he shuts the door, his eye is caught by a glow through the hallway window. The moon, large and yellow and luminous, is rising past a thicket of trees. They had spent the better part of the afternoon tramping through the grounds searching for clues, finding nothing.

“Beautiful,” he says under his breath, then notices John has fallen behind. He waits for him to catch up.

John glowers at the big moon hanging low. “Of course it would be a bloody full moon,” he mutters.

Sherlock wrinkles his brow at John, who has been out of sorts all day. Sherlock wonders if he has done something to anger him. He thought John might enjoy this little adventure, ridiculous as it is, looking for ghosts.

He misjudged it. He chides himself for thinking John might relax here, that they might have time to talk. Alone, they might finally --

Well, he was mistaken.

“Everything alright?” Sherlock ventures.

“Fine. Just… great.”

“Good, then,” Sherlock hesitates, not sure what to do with John's irate mood, this awkwardness. He retreats to familiar territory, claps his hands together. “Basement next.”

John's stomach does a little flip of dread. He doesn't want to do it. “Actually, I am feeling a bit peaky. Maybe I'll just… sit down.” He turns and walks back down the hallway to the staircase, wanting nothing more than a strong drink in his hand. He had seen several liquor bottles in the library earlier.

Sherlock watches John disappear down the hall, his gait slightly uneven. This had been a foolish idea, Sherlock thinks. As foolish as the feelings he's been harboring for John.

It's been months since the realization dawned on him how much he needs John in his life, how much he craves his company, how the slightest touch reverberates through his skin, how he wants to press his body against John's, breathe him in, unravel every question about him… It aches, having John so near and so distant.

Sherlock can't bring himself to tell John everything he wants to. He's terrified of ruining the friendship they have if John doesn't feel the same way. Best to keep silent.

The idea of coming to this isolated house was whimsy, a fantasy that he might find the courage to admit his feelings, and that John would reciprocate… Foolish.

He looks out the window again, down at the hedge rows and copse of woods beyond.

He's lost in thought when a cool breeze skims along his neck. He thinks nothing of it until he feels something icy trail across his nape, almost like a finger, making him jump. A woman's laugh, light and mocking, shimmers in the air. Sherlock whirls around, searching wildly for the source, sees nothing. He shivers, goosebumps rising on his arms.

He calms his racing heart. It was the wind, of course, nothing more than a gust seeping through the panes. His imagination -- and John's -- are primed for these wild fancies. There are no such things as ghosts.

 

************

 

John navigates unsteadily to the library lined with books and overstuffed armchairs. He pours a generous portion of scotch and takes a gulp. He exhales, knowing Sherlock will be behind him any minute.

Despite his misgivings, he had come to this house because Sherlock had asked him to. John had thought he could handle it, thought it might be good for them to get out of the city, a chance to see what might happen once they were alone.

It was stupid, really, to hope that Sherlock would ever consider him anything more than a friend. But, God, he couldn't turn off the constant thoughts he had about Sherlock, the slender fingers, long legs, clever brain, annoyingly sensuous mouth…

He had thought that maybe here, away from everything, he could test the waters with a meaningful look, a touch…

Stupid, so stupid to even let his mind wander that way. Sherlock's passion was his work, nothing else. He'd been very clear about that from the beginning. Here they were, alone, but Sherlock was focused solely on the investigation, caught up in the case.

And his own reaction to this house, to this ghost story -- he wasn't as immune to it as he thought he was, long-buried memories stirring again.

John takes another swallow, the fumes burning his throat. But there is something else he can taste, something cloying and floral filling his nose and overpowering the liquor on his tongue. Roses.

He looks up quickly, swears he sees a flash of green melting away in a corner, thinks he hears a rustle of stiff silk.

“Shit,” he whispers, gripping his glass too tightly.

The bottle tips over with a crash, rolls toward the edge of the table, scotch glugging onto the surface. John’s free hand shoots out to stop the container before it smashes onto the floor, sets it upright. The bottle is ice cold. John lifts his hand quickly as if he's been burned.

“Ah, there you are.” Sherlock sweeps into the room, sees John standing by the well-stocked table. He frowns, noticing the chill in the room. “Bit cold in here.”

John turns and stares at him. “Did you see it? Can you smell that?”

Sherlock looks at John carefully. “See what? And all I can smell is the scotch you just spilled.”

“I saw something -- over there, it moved. And I heard it, her dress, and the roses -- then the bottle fell over --” he stops, realizing how unhinged he must sound.

Sherlock glances into the corner of the room, then at the bottle. “You saw the ghost?”

“I -- I don't know.”

Sherlock says nothing, still trying to rationalize what he'd experienced upstairs. He kneels by the fireplace, busies himself with logs and kindling, strikes a long match from a container on the mantle. John silently mops up the scotch with a tea towel that had been folded on the table.

Once the fire is going, Sherlock stands up and brushes off his knees. “Sit down, John. I’ll have a drink, too. The basement can wait.”

John nods, takes a seat in one of the armchairs in front of the grate. Sherlock soon joins him, and they both train their gazes on the fire, glasses in hand.

John speaks first. “I know you're going to say it's impossible. That it was my imagination.”

Sherlock shrugs slightly. “Everything has an explanation.”

“What if -- what if some things can't be explained?”

Sherlock is about to counter with a long treatise on logic and reason, but the ashen look on John's face stops him. He will -- only for John -- bite his tongue. With effort, he asks the next question. “What do you mean?”

“I mean --” John grips his glass again, trying to get the words out. “I've seen things I can't explain. Not just tonight. In the past.”

Sherlock furrows his brow and waits until John continues.

“My grandmother was a very superstitious woman.” John stares into his amber drink. “If she spilled salt, she'd toss a pinch over her left shoulder for good luck. She read her horoscope every day. She said never to go near fairy rings. It all sounds ridiculous, I know.

“The point is, she always said there are things around us that are just beyond our understanding. They're there; but we don't know how to see them. Or if we do, we catch only glimpses.”

“And you've glimpsed things.”

John nods slowly. “I've spent a lot of time with the dead and dying… even more than you, I'd say. Med school, the Army. Hospitals and morgues...

“One of the first deaths I ever witnessed was an old woman dying of pneumonia. I was working a late shift at the hospital. Her last breaths, the death rattle, were the most horrible sounds I'd ever heard.

“Near the end, her husband finally arrived. An old man in a baggy brown cardigan shuffled in and went right to her bed, held her hand, stroked it.

“I didn't interfere, there was nothing to be done, and it seemed to calm her. She passed within a few minutes, so I noted the time -- 12:01 a.m. -- I remember distinctly. Then I stepped out into the hall to notify the attending physician. I told her the husband was in the room, and she looked at me as if I lost my mind. Said the woman's husband had died five years ago.

“I hurried back to the room, the old man’s gone. He can't have walked that far, so I checked the hall and elevator and stairs, I asked the desk clerks. No one else saw him. Vanished.”

Sherlock contemplates explanations, but keeps his gaze on the fire as John unburdens himself.

“I'm not superstitious,” John clarifies, “but I've seen monitors register impossible vital signs after certified death. I swear I heard a child singing in a morgue once.

“And in Afghanistan-- “ he halts, his voice going hoarse. He blinks a few times, takes a breath. “I saw a young soldier standing by a bed in the ward one night. As I got closer, I could see blood on his fatigues, but he just stood there staring at an empty cot. Then he looked up at me -- his eyes boring into me like he was wanting some sort of explanation -- and then he wasn't there.

“I was sleep deprived, thought I was hallucinating. But the next day I checked the records. A 19-year-old private had died in that bed two nights before. That shook me -- made me question everything.”

Sherlock absorbs John's words. He doesn't mention stress or guilt as possible psychological factors, but asks a question instead. “And your medical colleagues, they’ve experienced these types of things too?”

John takes a drink before answering. “Sometimes, when something odd happens, you just share a look. You don't talk about it, ok? Or if you ever do, it's over too many drinks late at night after a shift from hell.”

John stares at his drink again, afraid he's already revealed too much. But he can't stop. “I don't know why or how, but there are some things you cannot explain with pure logic. Whether you call it a spirit, or energy, or a soul -- there's a thinner line between the living and the dead than you think.” John exhales heavily, afraid to look at Sherlock and see the scorn in his eyes.

Sherlock doesn't know what to say, so he stumbles through a few words. “What you describe… I don't -- “ he pauses, not wanting to hurt John. “I can't understand it the way you do. I believe in science and logic and evidence -- I can't accept the existence of the supernatural.”

At that moment, the lights flicker and die, the temperature suddenly dropping. John’s eyes snap to Sherlock's. Without warning, a small game table next to Sherlock's chair falls over with a crash, a Scrabble board and letter tiles scattering across the rug.

They hold their breath, bracing themselves for more.

Sherlock finally exhales, trying to settle his nerves.

“How do you explain that?” John asks, an edge to his voice.

“Wires, remotes -- amateur stage tricks.” Sherlock rises from his chair and circles the dark room, fruitlessly scanning the shelves for hidden cameras and devices. “Someone must be watching us, listening.”

John carefully sets the table back upright as Sherlock fishes his phone from his pocket. “I’ll text the clients and find out where the fuse box is. No use standing here in the dark.” He taps at his phone and frowns. “My phone’s dead. It was almost fully charged.”

John digs out his phone, glances at the screen. “Dead.”

Sherlock crosses over to the desk and picks up the house phone, listens. He slowly replaces the phone into the base. “No connection.”

They look at each other again, faces tense in the glow of the fire.

“This is a farce,” Sherlock snarls in frustration. “Well done!” He shouts toward the ceiling, into the air. “Excellent performance! Can't wait to see what's next.” He runs an agitated hand through his hair.

John remains quiet, trying to keep his hands steady as he bends down to pick up the Scrabble tiles littering the floor. Ghost or no ghost, he doesn't want to antagonize whoever is toying with them.

“This is absurd.” Sherlock paces. “Help me find the fuse box. It's probably in the basement.”

“What?” John straightens up in alarm and drops the tiles back onto the game board. “No one’s going down there.”

“For God’s sake, John, don't be daft.”

John rises to his full height. “We are _not_ going to the fucking basement!”

Sherlock stares at him, stunned. “You can't be serious. Are you serious?”

“Jesus, Sherlock!” John throws his hands up in anger. “After what I just told you -- don't you get it?”

Sherlock stops, taken aback by John's tone. He scrutinizes John intently, then realizes his error: he’s grossly underestimated John's reaction to this case. John is truly afraid, shaken, reliving every inexplicable experience he's ever had.

“Oh.” Sherlock’s shoulders drop, his insistence fades. He shouldn't have brought John to this house, shouldn't have taken this bloody case. “Never mind the fuses. We ought to look for some candles, I suppose.”

John nods, both relieved and ashamed that Sherlock knows his weakness. He would try to do better, would try to control his irrational thoughts and be the steady partner Sherlock needs.

 

************

 

Guided by the moonlight spilling through the windows, they find two large candles decorating a table near the foyer and several tall tapers in the dining room.

They return to the library to finish their drinks and warm themselves by the fire.

Sherlock takes his seat and glances at the side table that had fallen over earlier, idly wondering how the trick had been engineered. Then his attention freezes on the Scrabble board. “Did you do this?”

“Do what?” John peers down at the table. On the board, neatly arranged letters spell out three words.

 

H  
E  
A  
REVEAL  
T  
SECRETS

 

“I didn't do that.” John's mouth is dry.

“Someone has an odd sense of humor.” Sherlock tries to sound nonchalant, but this latest antic needles him. If there's someone in the house with them, he wants to be prepared.

He looks up at John. “Did you bring it?”

John knows what he’s referring to. “In my bag.”

They had left their coats and overnight bags at the foot of the staircase when they first arrived. A Sig Sauer is safely tucked between John's socks and shirts.

John is still mulling over the words, turning them over in his mind. Reveal. Hearts. Secrets. “What's it supposed to mean?”

“It’s nonsense.”

John isn't so sure, but lets it drop. His unease has not disappeared, but the scotch is dulling the edge a bit.

He feels Sherlock's eyes on him.

“Do you want to leave?” Sherlock asks, his voice surprisingly gentle.

“No.” John stubbornly refuses to give in. “We're staying.”

The corner of Sherlock's mouth tilts up, pleased. He shouldn't have doubted John. “Good man.”

They stay by the fire as it dies to embers, talking about old cases to pass the time, waiting. Nothing else happens, so they light the tapers and make their way to the stairs. They gather their bags and climb the steps, the small flames casting eerie shadows along the walls.

In the upstairs hallway, Sherlock pauses by the door to one of the bedrooms. “I suppose any of these will do,” he says, his hand on the doorknob.

John is at the door across the hall, and tries to open it. It's locked. He moves to the next door. Also locked.

He hears a rattle and an annoyed “For fuck’s sake--” from Sherlock.

John looks over at Sherlock. “These weren't all locked when we were here earlier.”

Sherlock wrestles with another knob that won't budge. “More jokes,” he mutters.

They try each room, one of the last doors at the end of the hall finally opening. They stand shoulder to shoulder in the doorway, carefully surveying the room.

Sherlock steps forward cautiously, holding the candle out in front of him. “Apparently,” he finally pronounces, “this is where our ghost wants us to stay.”

The room is large, and Sherlock lets the candlelight play over the windows with heavy drapes, the unlit fireplace stacked with wood, a door leading to an adjoining bathroom.

He pivots slowly to the left, the pool of light falling onto the bed. It's lavish, four carved posts holding up a red velvet canopy. Pillows and bolsters spill over the burgundy satin duvet.

They stare at the garish site.

“Must be the honeymoon suite,” John laughs nervously.

“Hm,” Sherlock answers. “Overdone.”

He lights the two large candles and sets one on a bedside table, the other on the mantle. He kneels down to start the fire while John checks the revolver in his bag. It's loaded, the safety on.

They both finish their tasks, finding themselves standing in the dim light with nothing more to do.

“l'll just… go wash up,” John says, grabbing his bag and plucking up a candle. He retreats to the bathroom, brushes his teeth, slips on pajama bottoms and an old t-shirt.

When he steps out minutes later, he sees Sherlock running his fingers over the top of the door frame, then sliding them down the length of curtains.

“No bugs or cameras, as far as I can tell,” Sherlock says, looking disappointed.

John knows he'd love to find something, any shred of evidence that would dismiss the supernatural. John still isn't sure what to make of all that's happened, but at least the room is cozy and feels safe.

John stands at the foot of the bed, noting the pleasant warmth of the fire. He hesitates, not quite sure how to navigate the sleeping arrangements.

“So… I can sleep on the floor,” he offers, rubbing the back of his neck uncertainly.

“Don't be a martyr.” Sherlock picks up his bag and strides to the bathroom. “It's a big bed. I want the right side.”

The bathroom door closes, leaving John to puzzle out what he just heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooooo, spooky! What could possibly happen next? I bet you can guess. ; )


	2. Chapter 2

Inside the bathroom, Sherlock looks at himself in the mirror, his features carved and hollowed by the flickering candle. How on earth, he wonders, has this bizarre evening ended with him about to share a bed with John?

He’s not going to overthink it. He brushes his teeth. He shrugs off his suit jacket, unbuttons his shirt, folds them neatly, and sets them aside. He undoes his flies, slips off his trousers, adds them to the stack of clothing. He pulls on soft cotton pajama pants, reaches for a faded blue t-shirt.

Before he can slip it over his head, a familiar coldness seeps into the small room and the hair on the back of his neck rises. He stares at his own wide-eyed reflection, watches his face fade as the mirror fogs over in the sudden chill. The scent of roses hangs heavily in the air.

His lips part in silent disbelief as an invisible finger traces letters through the condensation on the mirror: _t e l l   h i m_

Sherlock is too shocked to react. Although the coldness and floral scent soon dissipate, the words on the mirror linger.

Suddenly he's moving, bursting through the door into the bedroom, searching for John.

John is crouching by the fireplace about to add more wood. He straightens when he sees Sherlock’s wild expression and bare chest expanding with rapid breaths.

“What is it?” John tosses the log onto the fire and moves quickly to Sherlock's side.

“Look.” Sherlock steers John roughly into the bathroom, jabs a finger at the faint writing on the mirror.

John reads the words to himself, listens as Sherlock disjointedly describes their mysterious appearance.

They both watch as the words gradually vanish. John strings the strange messages together.

_Tell him. Reveal hearts secrets._

John reels inwardly as the words hit home, convinced they're meant for him. His eyes meet Sherlock's in the reflection and he worries that Sherlock can see every hidden thought, every fantasy, exposed on his face.

Sherlock’s pulse quickens again as the words shift and take shape in his mind’s eye. How can it -- they -- whoever is responsible for this set of tricks possibly know about his closely guarded feelings for John?

“Impossible.” Sherlock growls, swiping his fingers angrily over the mirror, sensing nothing but smooth glass.

John takes a shallow breath. “Do they mean anything to you? The words?”

Sherlock doesn't answer, still struggling to tamp down the mix of emotions boiling under his skin. The scotch, the lights going out, the Scrabble tiles, the glowing candles, locked doors, luxurious bed, lit fire, _tell him_ \-- it's as if the entire evening was expressly designed to maneuver the two of them into the most intimate of settings for a confession.

He is at a loss to explain any of it. For the first time, he must consider the improbable.

John replays the strange series of events that has brought them to this candlelit room. He surreptitiously studies Sherlock’s half-hidden face, wondering what he's thinking.

John's gaze travels down Sherlock's long neck to his chest, the sculpted muscles defined in the low light. He ought to offer some reassuring explanation about the writing on the mirror, but can come up with nothing.

Instead, he remembers reading somewhere that ghosts supposedly feed off of energy -- electricity, phone batteries, strong emotions: anger, fear, jealousy… desire.

John swallows, noticing Sherlock's pale skin stretched tautly over his breastbone, the curved dip of his lower back, the pajama bottoms riding low on his hips. What if, somehow, his own suppressed emotions have fueled this entire situation, leading up to this moment?

Sherlock slides his eyes over to John, to the white t-shirt molded over his chest, the tempting cleft in his chin, the shadow of his lashes inked across his cheek. What if, he contemplates, his own subconscious has served as the engine driving the events of the evening to this moment?

Their eyes meet unexpectedly in the mirror, and they're caught, a glimmer of unguardedness passing between them.

They hold the gaze, each seeing a vulnerability in the other that is a surprise. They both want to glance away, embarrassed; yet they continue to look, finding something more compelling.

A recognition slowly dawns. The gaze they're sharing is not dispassionate. Rather, it is caution layered thinly over raw longing. The tension vibrates around them in the flickering shadows.

Sherlock is now highly aware of his half-dressed state, of John's eyes on his body. He’s frozen in place again, wanting John to reach out and touch him, just touch him… _Tell him._

John wants Sherlock to turn and look at him, to really look into his eyes and see what he's been holding back, to understand how deeply John has fallen under his spell, that he'd do anything for him. _Tell him._

John moves first, unplanned, placing a hand gently on Sherlock's shoulder, fingers curling over his bare skin. He turns Sherlock to face him and their eyes meet.

John tries to speak, tries to push out the words, but fails. He pleads with his eyes, hoping Sherlock can read his intentions.

Sherlock searches John’s face, several seconds ticking by. In those few moments, Sherlock gleans from John's expression everything he's ever dared hope for, a beautifully frightening revelation: John wants him. His heart pounding, Sherlock leans forward a fraction more and reaches blindly for John.

The kiss is swift and hard and unexpected, stealing the air from John's lungs. Sherlock's large hands grip his head, thumbs on his cheekbones, fingers in his hair. John inhales sharply through his nose, his body responding before his brain can fully comprehend what is happening.

John closes his eyes, overwhelmed by warm skin, strong hands, the press of Sherlock's chest against his own. His fingertips bite into Sherlock's shoulder, his palm slides around Sherlock's waist, his mouth taking, giving, searching for more and more satisfaction.

And then Sherlock pulls away, his fingers still buried in John's hair.

“Why didn't I see it?” Sherlock chastises himself softly. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I could ask the same,” John points out with a small smile. His face grows more serious. “I didn't say anything… because I was afraid you didn't feel the same way.”

Sherlock relaxes his fingers, trailing them down John's neck to his shoulders. “I was afraid, too.”

John moves his hand up Sherlock’s back, guiding him close again. “Strange, to be afraid of each other when we're in a haunted house.”

The smile that plays across Sherlock's mouth unfurls a coil of warmth in John’s belly, making him forget everything else except for the sensuous lips he's about to cover with his own.

Sherlock's hands curve behind John's back, pulling him up and into the kiss, John now on his tiptoes. Sherlock lets out a soft moan when John sinks his fingers into the dark curls just above his nape.

The candle sputters, hissing as the flame consumes the wax, long shadows dancing in the mirror.

It starts out slow, a series of soft kisses, half-lowered lashes, hands slowly roaming from back to neck, shoulder to jaw.

John can't resist the pale column of neck, trails his lips from ear to collarbone, backing Sherlock up against the sink so he can reach the sensitive skin. Practically wedged between Sherlock's legs, John can feel Sherlock harden in response through their thin cotton clothing, and his blood quickens.

Sherlock leans against the cold enamel basin, snakes his hand under the tail of John's shirt, runs his palm up John's spine. His head is tilted, allowing John to pay delicious attention to his neck. Pressed so close together, it's impossible not to notice the bulge in John's pajamas that's now rubbing against his thigh.

John finds Sherlock's eager mouth again, kissing deeper, tongue slipping between his lips.

They finally pull apart, Sherlock’s bottom lip captured between John's teeth, released. They breathe shallowly, foreheads touching.

“I think,” John finally says, his voice low, “we should go to bed.”

It's quite possibly the most wonderful suggestion Sherlock has ever heard, yet all he can do is nod once. He picks up the candle by the base, and John loops his hand around his wrist, leading him to the bed.

John takes the candle from Sherlock and blows it out, a wisp of smoke curling into the air. The remaining candles and low-burning fire bathe the room in a golden glow.

Although he hides it well, John is nervous, his stomach doing little flips again, his nerves alight but for very different reasons than earlier this evening. Any thought of ghosts has faded, his mind occupied entirely by the flesh and blood man standing before him. And such a beautiful creature he is, pale skin, blue eyes, hard chest, hands that could kill, lips that hint of numerous pleasures.

He can't wait anymore, can't be afraid anymore. John tugs up his shirt, pulls it over his head, discards it to the side. He looks up at Sherlock and steps forward, gathering Sherlock's hips in his hands, drawing him closer.

Sherlock receives John's mouth like a blessing, closing his eyes, cupping John's face in his palms, thanking a god he doesn't believe in for this moment.

He breathes John in, wood smoke and sunlight, whiskey and mint, runs his hands over biceps, across shoulder blades, the rasp of stubble burning his cheeks.

They sink onto the bed, still kissing, and lie down on their sides, melting into the satiny sheen. Sherlock hooks a leg over John’s thigh, notching their pelvises together. His breath catches at the sensation of his cock pressing against John's, a wave of heat traveling up his spine.

He has to resist the urge to rut against John or it will be over much too soon. Sherlock lifts his mouth away from John's to refocus and finds himself falling into deep blue eyes.

John smiles, brushes a curl away from Sherlock’s forehead, and Sherlock's heart unfolds.They let their hands and lips wander, place tender kisses in hollows and curves, drawing out sighs and soft murmurs.

Sherlock skims his hand down John’s waist, stopping where the pajama bottoms begin. His fingers play along the edge of the waistband, and he notes that John is not wearing underwear. Neither is he, a shared habit he’s cataloged before. This is not the first time his imagination has painted in John's thighs and groin and lower belly.

Here is a conundrum. Half clothed, their actions are already quite intimate. Were they to completely undress -- his thumb slides beneath the waistband, finds the jut of John’s hipbone -- the intimacy would soon cross into carnality.

Somehow, Sherlock is not yet ready for that. The thin fabric is a safety net, a flimsy barrier that offers a tantalizing promise for the next time. For now, the hint of hot skin waiting under that cotton -- coarse hair, blue veins, corded tendons, rigid cock -- is arousing as hell. His cock stiffens at the image, tenting his pajamas.

He needs John's touch, wants every part of him, but gradually, in increments over many days. Sherlock rolls onto his back, pulling John on top of him. Right now, he wants to be surrounded by John, submerged, wants his weight to settle over him like the ocean, pinning him down, stilling his quicksilver mind.

John willingly wraps himself around Sherlock, covers him, sinking his bones into the cradle of his hips, twining his arms under his shoulders, absorbing him. They breathe, locked together.

John raises to his elbows and kisses Sherlock, then gazes into those impossible eyes, kisses him again, and gazes. With each kiss John shifts, his cock sliding along the length of Sherlock's. There's very little cloth between them, the rough friction irresistible.

John lifts his hips slightly, dragging his cock forward and back over Sherlock's, a deliberate tease, stroking balls and shaft and head with each pass. Sherlock uncurls his tongue into John's mouth, a low moan in his throat.

The fire pops and crackles, the room growing hotter. John slowly rolls his hips, lost in a tangle of tongues and lips and hair, damp patches of pre-come blooming through cotton. His cock is hard and full, compelling him to find the sweetest points of contact, grinding down on Sherlock in wanton ways. He doesn't notice the sparks swirling around the bed like a glowing whirlwind.

Sherlock is drowning in sensations, the heavy, quickening strokes of John's cock setting every nerve in his lower body on fire. The pajamas are bunching up, pulling in tender places, a seam biting his inner thigh, but it just adds to the building tension, a tiny bit of pain to contrast with the pleasure. His body grows taut, nipples peaked, cock ripe, aching to spill. He half opens his eyes, needing to see John's face.

He barely registers the glittery flecks of fire dancing around the bed, can only note how odd it is before his pent-up body takes over, striving for release. He clutches John's arse, tips his hips up, seeking, grinding, throbbing, coming with an intense pulse.

The room goes white, his body rippling like a pond pierced by a stone.

The sight of Sherlock's face contorted in ecstasy nearly sends John over the brink. He delves a hand down his pajamas, palms himself, stroking hard, and he's off -- hips jerking, come spilling over his fingers, a few creamy strands dribbling onto Sherlock's abdomen.

John sags on top of Sherlock, out of breath, burying his face in his neck, nudging his cock against him a few times, working through the last shimmers of his orgasm. They remain tangled, panting, the embers shifting and settling in the grate.

When Sherlock opens his eyes again, he sees her. A woman in a green silk dress is standing at the foot of the bed, black hair swept up elaborately, blood red lips, lively blue eyes, high cheekbones accented by a smug smile. Sparks flit around her like fireflies.

Sherlock stares at her over John's shoulder, transfixed, everything logical within him thrown into turmoil. She can't be real, and yet there she is, smirking like the cat who got the cream.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, then shakes John's shoulder.

John looks up drowsily, then sees the strange expression on Sherlock's face. His head swivels to the foot of the bed.

“Oh christ…”

Despite the cold twist in his stomach, John can't help but notice the woman is beautiful, her long neck plunging into a deep cut bodice that accentuates her full breasts.

She smiles knowingly, then winks -- and vanishes in a glimmer of light, a single red rose petal drifting onto the satin bed cover. They're left speechless, Sherlock still pinned under John’s pliantly warm body.

Wide awake again, John scrambles off, and they exchange an uneasy glance.

“You saw her, right? The woman?” John asks with a mix of disbelief and triumph.

“I saw it.”

“My god… She winked!”

“Yes.” Sherlock leans forward and picks up the rose petal, turning it in his fingers.

“You saw her,” John repeats, feeling both justified and oddly unsettled. He looks to Sherlock for confirmation, for some sort of logical explanation. Sherlock says nothing for several moments.

“I don't know how it's possible.” Sherlock turns the petal once more between his fingers, then looks up at John. “You were right. Some things can't be explained.”

John takes the petal from Sherlock, studies it, not sure what to say. “So what do we do?”

“Nothing.”

“But what do we tell the clients?”

“Unsolved. Call in the paranormal experts. I don't know. But I don't think our ghost will be visiting us anymore tonight. Her work is done.”

They look at each other, and it sinks in, their sticky, rumpled clothes, messy hair, stubble-burned skin.

“You think she --” John starts, then stops. It doesn't matter how they ended up in this ridiculously romantic bed, only that they did.

He sets the petal on the bedside table, then turns back to Sherlock, placing a hand on his waist. “I'm glad we took this case,” he says softly.

Sherlock pulls John closer, a hand curving around one firm arse cheek, locking away the inexplicable, choosing to focus on the tangible. “I thought for a moment it was a mistake coming here,” he admits. “But I was wrong.”

John grins. “So I'm right, you're wrong, and you've seen a ghost. This is my lucky night.”

Sherlock’s mouth briefly forms a petulant frown, and John kisses it away.

“You’re not blogging about this,” Sherlock warns, rolling on top of John, pinning his hands above his head. “I don't like the unsolved ones.”

John gazes up at Sherlock, content to be trapped under his lean frame. “Some things got solved, don't you think?”

Sherlock smiles wickedly. “Oh, we're not done yet.” He bends down to nuzzle John’s neck, sliding his lips to his ear. “We’re just getting started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Halloween far too much. Hope you enjoyed this little haunted smut break!  
> Want more spooky fic? Check out 'An Offer of Immortality' and 'Lightning and Sea Glass' on my Works list.


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